


Goodnight, Neal

by scatterglory



Category: White Collar
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatterglory/pseuds/scatterglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal learns the truth, and Peter is there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodnight, Neal

**Author's Note:**

> Here's an idea for how the twist in 1x07 could play out. Beta'd by the intrepid [](http://themegaloo.livejournal.com/profile)[**themegaloo**](http://themegaloo.livejournal.com/); any errors are totally the fault of the author. Feedback is loved, and makes Neal strip. :D

**Goodnight, Neal**

 

"I didn't bug _your_ phone, Neal," Fowler said.

Neal stared at him in confusion. Fowler held his gaze, and a ball of ice began to form in his stomach. _No. It's not possible._ His mouth moved, but no sound came out. _No. No. No._ Before Fowler could speak again, Neal turned and ran out of the hotel room.

_It can't be true._ He paused in the street, not knowing which way to turn. _Fowler's got to be lying to me. It can't be true--_

His phone rang. _Peter._ Somehow he knew without checking. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, debating for only a moment. _It can't be true . . ._ "Hey."

"Where are you?"

He hesitated. "I shouldn't tell you."

"Fair enough." The FBI agent sound amused, then sober. "Listen, I have something you need to see. Meet me at . . . "

* * *

He arrived at the hotel fifteen minutes later and paused outside the room. _Just stay calm._ He took a deep breath, schooling his features to neutrality. _You can do this._ He opened the door. "Peter, what's so impor--"

Then he saw her. She was standing by the window, arms crossed, looking--looking just like she had the last time he'd seen her this close. In prison.

"Kate," he whispered.

"Neal," she said in a dead voice, not meeting his eyes.

"Kate, what--" He started to move towards her, to reach out for her, but Peter was there in front of him, catching him by the shoulders, pushing him down into an armchair.

"Neal, I need you to sit here and listen to what she has to say, and to not do anything stupid. Look at me. _Look_ at me." Peter grabbed his chin, forcing him to tear his gaze away from Kate and meet the agent's eyes. "Nothing. Stupid. Okay?"

_Kate._ He would say anything to make Peter go away. "Okay."

Satisfied, Peter let go of his chin and moved behind Neal's chair. Neal's eyes fixed immediately on Kate. She was quiet for so long that Neal began to worry. _Is she hurt? Drugged?_ Only the presence of Peter behind him kept him in his chair.

Kate she shuddered once, and began to speak. "I lied to you," she said dully. "I've been lying to you. All along. Since prison. Since before prison."

Neal's stomach clenched. Her eyes flickered to his, then away.

"I never loved you." She took a deep breath. "Never. I just wanted--wanted in. You were amazing. The best. And so in love with me."

She turned to face him, but her eyes were still on the floor. "When you went to prison, I visited you for four years, hoping that someday you'd trust me, tell me where you hid it all--"

Her voice rose. "But you never did. So I left. But just in case, I made it look like--like someone was hurting me. So that if you ever found me, you'd never suspect . . ."

Now she met his gaze, held it. "I faked the picture, Neal. I faked the kidnapping. I fed false information to Interpol. None of it was real. None of it."

She fell silent for a moment. Neal just stared at her, unable to speak, unable to think. "When you made that deal with the FBI, I knew it was only a matter of time. I had to make you think that they--that he," she glanced at Peter, "was against you. So I called you. But it was me the whole time."

Her voice fell to a whisper. "It was me."

"Kate--" Neal gasped, his voice choking off. The room tilted dangerously as his vision blurred. He wanted to jump up, run to her, take her in his arms--but his body was leaden in the chair. Kate bit her lip, saying nothing. She glanced at Peter again.

Peter's hand on his shoulder nearly stopped his heart. "What do you want me to do with her, Neal?" Peter asked gently.

"Wh-what?"

"I can arrest her, if you want. Lying to Interpol. Faking a kidnapping. Or I can . . . overlook . . . this." Peter's gesture encompassed the room and confession in one. "What do you want me to do?"

He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. Kate watched him warily. Her expression was closed, cautious. His heart felt like a stone in his chest. "Just--go," he whispered at last. Broken.

She was moving towards the door before he finished speaking. One last glance at Peter, and a long look at Neal, and then she was gone.

_Oh god, Kate--_

With a strangled sob, Neal slid from the chair to the floor. His body was shaking, he couldn't control it, couldn't do anything but see her eyes in his mind--

"Neal. _Neal._" One hand on either shoulder, Peter shook him gently.

Neal shook his head. "No," he whispered. "No no no."

"Shhh." Peter sat, wrapping Neal in his arms.

Neal collapsed against Peter's chest, moaning into Peter's shirt. "No. Kate--"

Peter held the younger man as his sobs filled the hotel room.

* * *

Elizabeth's eyes widened when they came through the door, Neal clinging to Peter's shoulder, but she said nothing. She disappeared into the kitchen as Peter took Neal upstairs and into the guest room. He sat Neal down on the bed. "Promise me you'll stay here tonight, Neal."

Neal said nothing.

"Promise me."

Silence.

Peter sighed. "I would love to spend the night with my lovely wife, but if you don't promise me that you'll stay in this room until morning, I _will_ stay up all night watching you."

Neal's glance flickered up to Peter's worried eyes. "I . . . promise."

"Good."

Elizabeth came in with a cup of tea. She shot a concerned look at Neal, then at Peter. Peter took the cup, and gave her a weak half-smile. Pursing her lips, she left the room.

Peter put the tea on the nightstand next to the bed and sat down beside Neal. "Come on. Drink this, get some sleep, and you'll feel better in the morning."

Neal didn't respond. With a sigh, Peter got up and pushed him back. He started to pull Neal's shoes off, when Neal sat up. "Don't--" He swung his legs down off the side of the bed, and began to untie the laces. "They're Italian."

Peter's lips quirked into a quick smile. With mechanical movements, Neal got his shoes off and laid back down. Peter waited a moment, but when Neal didn't show any indication of doing anything other than staring at the ceiling, he headed to the door.

"Goodnight, Neal," he said as he switched off the light.

* * *

Neal lay in the dark, unblinking. _All those years, all our struggles, all we did together_ . . . Even his thoughts felt forced, hollow. He tried to swallow, almost choked. _It can't be over. She loves me--she has to--_ But the coldness in his chest refused to go away.

Sleep never came.

By morning, he was numb.

* * *

Elizabeth got up first. He heard her quiet steps on the stairs. Stopping by the dresser on his way to the door, he examined himself in the mirror. He didn't recognize the empty blue eyes staring back.

_I can con almost anyone alive._ He regarded himself soberly. _But I was the biggest fool of all._

* * *

When Peter made it down to the dining room, he was having a quiet breakfast with Elizabeth. Peter entered cautiously, looking him over with a mixture of concern and suspicion. "How are you feeling?"

Neal summoned his most dazzling smile. "Fine."

"You sure?" Peter sounded skeptical. "If you want the day off . . ."

"What for?" He cocked his head to the side, as if curious. Peter looked away awkwardly, and Neal smiled. "Really, Peter," he said with palpable sincerity, "I'm fine."

* * *

Peter watched him all day. He tried to be discreet, but Neal could tell. The sideways glances, the briefest touches, the way he stood slightly closer than usual. No one else seemed to notice. Dressed in the clean suit they'd picked up from his apartment on the way in, Neal managed to flirt with Lauren, tease Jones, and earn a grudgingly amused look from Hughes all before lunch. Peter wasn't buying it, but he didn't say anything. Neal managed to avoid being alone with him for any length of time, and was careful to avoid meeting his gaze for very long--his mask was still too fresh to risk the insightful brown of Peter's eyes.

When the day was over, Neal hesitated at his desk. As he reached for his hat, he was paralyzed by the thought of returning to his apartment alone, making small talk with June, seeing the bottle on its shelf . . .

Then Peter was behind him, hand in the small of Neal's back. "If we leave now, we'll be home before dinner gets cold."

* * *

_He was alone. Utterly, completely alone. No matter where he ran, no matter how loudly he shouted, there was no one there to see him, no one to hear him, no one to save him when, screaming, he fell and fell and fell . . ._

Strong arms caught him, enveloping him, pulling him into their safety. He clutched at them desperately--"Hey, hey, shh, it's okay."

Neal's eyes flew open. He was sprawled in Peter's arms, face buried in the agent's chest. Moonlight filtered in through the window as, aching, he shut his eyes again. "Kate," he whimpered into Peter's shirt.

Peter sighed and gingerly placed a hand in Neal's hair. "I figured."

Neal flinched slightly and glanced up at Peter, who managed to look both uncomfortable and protective as he loosened his grip. "I heard you screaming, and--El was worried."

Pulling himself together, Neal managed a wan smile. "Thanks."

Peter shrugged and ducked his head. "Think you can go back to sleep?"

Neal shivered, but managed to disguise it as a shrug. "Of course."

With an awkward, self-conscious smile, Peter got up. He paused at the door, half-turning.

"Goodnight, Neal," he said.

* * *

The next day, work was the same. Neal felt like he had a tall, poorly-dressed shadow for the entire nine hours. Or maybe he was the shadow, and Peter was the one who was real.

That night they stayed up too late, sitting in the dim living room, sipping scotch and not speaking. Elizabeth already been in bed for hours when Peter stood up from his chair. Neal, sitting on the couch across from him, glanced up. Peter inclined his head towards the stairs, and Neal followed him reluctantly.

Peter preceded Neal into the guest room and settled into the chair. Neal paused in the doorway and looked at him questioningly. Peter raised an eyebrow and held Neal's gaze.

A knot Neal hadn't realized he'd had in the pit of his stomach relaxed. He closed the door, turned off the light, and got into the bed. He could see Peter's outline against the window. He could hear Peter's breathing in the dark.

He shut his eyes, matching his breathing to Peter's, counting each breath.

Just before he fell asleep, he heard Peter's whisper. "Goodnight, Neal."

* * *

"How did you sleep?" Elizabeth asked at breakfast.

Neal glanced at Peter, who was completely absorbed in the newspaper.

"Like a baby," he replied.

* * *

Peter sat with him every night until he fell asleep. He was always gone by morning.

Until he wasn't. Neal came awake slowly, hardly daring to breath lest he wake the gently snoring agent. Peter lay on top of the covers, still in his suit from the day before. His arm was pinned underneath Neal's shoulder, and Neal's head rested between his shoulder and chin. With painstaking care, Neal lifted himself up, and settled down on the far edge of the bed. He shut his eyes, feigning sleep despite the pounding in his chest. _I must have been crying out again. That's all._

A few minutes later, he felt the bed dip slightly as Peter got up. He didn't dare open his eyes until he heard Peter shut the door as he left.

* * *

A week had passed. Neal stared out the window as Peter drove them home. In the side mirror, he saw the agent glance over at him.

"Today was a good day."

"Mmm." Neal didn't move.

"You seemed more like yourself."

Neal looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. Peter's eyes were on the road. Neal noticed the tension in Peter's shoulders, and his heart sank. "Do you--do you and El want me to leave?"

Peter looked at him with surprise. "No! No. It's not that. I . . . we . . . just want to make sure you're doing okay." He took at deep breath. "We talked about it. You can stay with as long as you want to. If you want to."

"I do," Neal said quietly. "I want to."

Eyes still on the road, Peter smiled slightly. The tension in his shoulders melted away. "Then it's settled."

* * *

Elizabeth had just gone out of town for the week-long annual ladies-only vacation she shared with her girlfriends. Neal was making breakfast when Peter got a call.

"This is Burke. Yes--yes. No, he's with me. Today? We're sure the intel's good? All right, we're on our way."

Turning to Neal's quizzical face, he clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Looks like the omelettes will have to wait till tomorrow. There's been a break in the Van Gogh case. I'll explain in the car."

For the past six weeks, they'd been working with Interpol on a case regarding a stolen Van Gogh painting. The master painter had apparently done a "Vase with Fourteen Sunflowers" prior to his famous fifteen-sunflower edition, and the painting had been in a private collection in France until recently. It was suspected to be somewhere in New York, waiting for whatever buyer had backed the heist. In the meantime, the FBI's contacts informed them, thousands of replicas were also being stored in New York, to be used as decoys when the painting was moved.

The most recent piece of intel was the location of a warehouse thought to contain most, if not all, of the replicas. The higher-ups thought it likely that the original painting was being stored with the replicas to further confuse the search. Neal had reservations, but Peter said they didn't have a choice.

"We'll meet up with everyone in the industrial district, at the next warehouse over. The trick will be making sure we secure the location before any of the evidence gets damaged."

Neal frowned. "You'd risk the Van Gogh just to raid the warehouse."

"It's not my call. Hughes has taken over the investigation. I'm just there for support, and you're just there to look pretty and tell us if any of the paintings are the real deal."

Neal shot him a glance, but didn't respond.

They arrived at the warehouse next to their target. Neal followed Peter as he was briefed by Hughes, looking politely interested each time Peter glanced over his shoulder to check on him. The warehouse they'd chosen as a base of operations was crawling with agents. Neal's gut was uneasy.

_If they storm the warehouse, everything could go up in flames._ He knew he should trust the FBI to do their job, but . . .

_ . . . But this is a Van Gogh._

* * *

Neal could have gotten through the "perimeter" in his sleep. Getting into the warehouse was a breeze, avoiding the guards even more so, and it took him less than a minute to locate a likely container.

Whoever had financed the heist, Neal figured, was obviously rich--but not rich enough to actually buy the painting from its rightful owner. With an operation this size, a considerable amount must have already been spent. While the backer wasn't going to risk the priceless painting, there was no reason to spend an exorbitant amount protecting the forgeries. To Neal's trained eye, not all cargo crates were created equal; he found one at the back that he was willing to bet had some extra cargo--like a humidity control mechanism, additional padding, and a fingerprint-activated lock . . .

Satisfied, he was about to return and tell Peter, when--

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Neal instantly raised his hands. With his most innocuous smile, he turned around to face the guard.

And the guard's gun. Neal's smile faltered slightly as he stared down the barrel of the assault rifle. Tearing his eyes away, he met the guard's suspicious look with his most charming expression.

"Excuse me, I seem to have stumbled into the wrong warehouse. I was wondering why none of my usual equipment was present . . ."

The guard's gun didn't lower. "Bullshit. I'm only gonna ask you one more time before I blow your fucking head off." The guard shoved the barrel of the gun under Neal's chin. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Neal gulped. "I--"

Click. "Drop. It."

The guard swore, and the gun fell away. The guard took a step back and Neal saw Peter, death written across his face, holding his handgun to the back of the guard's head. Neal stumbled backwards, into the crate. "Peter, I--"

"Shut up, Neal. Drop it NOW."

The guard's gun clattered to the floor. Peter motioned Neal behind him, and took a step back from the guard. "On your stomach."

The guard got down on the ground. Peter glanced behind them, and swore. "Shit! Neal! Get down!" Peter threw himself onto Neal as other guards opened fire from behind them. The guard on the ground went for his gun, brought it around to fire at them--

Peter shot him three times in the head. The man's blood rained down on them, and his body fell at Neal's feet. Neal swallowed a scream. They cowered behind a crate as bullets exploded around them.

"Agent under fire!" Peter was shouting into his radio. "We need backup!" He grabbed the dead man's gun and leaned in close to Neal. "Stay here, stay down, and don't move. I'm going to distract them." Neal stared at him, panic splashed across his deathly-pale features. "No, Peter! They're kill you!"

Peter set the guns down and grabbed Neal's shoulders. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Their faces were inches apart. Without thinking, Neal leaned forward and kissed him. Peter froze. Neal abruptly realized what he was doing and jerked back, his blue eyes wide with panic.

Giving him an unreadable look, Peter grabbed the guns and crawled away.

Neal leaned against the crate, light-headed, sick, and confused as the bullets shattered against the crates around him. _ I'm going to die I'm going to die FUCK I kissed Peter I'm going to die . . ._

Then the shooting stopped. Neal held his breath. _Oh god. They killed Peter and now they'll come for me . . ._ He was paralyzed, unable to move with the dead man's blood soaking into his pants and shoes.

"Neal."

At first, his eyes couldn't recognize who was speaking. Then--

"Oh god, Peter--"

"It's okay. It's over." Peter bent down and helped him up. He was unhurt, his face serious as he led Neal to where the other agents were gathered. The rest of the guards were disarmed and in custody, and none of the agents had been injured. Neal's knees buckled, and Peter's arm around his waist was the only thing that kept him from collapsing to the floor.

"Here he is." Peter brought him over to a stone-faced Hughes. Hughes' eyes narrowed.

"What the hell was that, Caffrey? You could have been killed! Everyone could have been killed! The painting could have been destroyed! And you, Burke, going in after him--!"

Peter's face was impassive. "Sir, if you're going to fire me, can it wait till tomorrow? Caffrey's in shock, and I need to make sure he's not hurt."

"I found it. It's in the case at the back. Third from the left," Neal interrupted quietly.

Both agents stared at him.

Neal swallowed, and continued in a distant tone. "Fingerprint lock. Has to be it. None of the other crates have one."

Hughes shot Peter a dark look. "I hope you're right, for both your sakes. Burke, get him out of here. I'll deal with you two tomorrow."

Nodding to acknowledge the dismissal, Peter half-carried Neal out of the warehouse and to the car.

"Are you hurt?"

Neal shook his head mutely, staring at the blood on his shirt.

"We need to get you out of those clothes. Your place is closer." Without another word, Peter took off.

* * *

They drove in silence. Neal's mind didn't seem to be able to form complete thoughts. Peter kept glancing at him, but he only stared at the floor of the car. They made it to his room without running into June.

Neal barely made it inside the door before starting to shred his blood-spattered shirt. He felt panic beginning to rise up inside him; his breathing was ragged in his chest. Then Peter was there, grabbing his wrists, restraining him. Neal looked at him wildly before collapsing against his chest. Peter wrapped his arms around Neal and rocked him gently as he shook.

When Neal calmed, Peter let go and lifted Neal's chin. Neal didn't meet his eyes.

"Hey. You're okay. I'm okay. Everything's going to be okay." Peter smiled, and Neal's eyes flickered to his face. He pulled away, and started half-heartedly tearing at his shirt again.

"Shh. Shh." Peter came up behind him, catching his hands gently and lowering them to his sides. Peter wrapped his arms around Neal, and unfastened the few remaining buttons on Neal's shirt before gently removing it and dropping it to the floor. Neal shivered.

"You should shower, get clean, warm up before you make yourself sick," Peter said in a low, soothing voice. He stepped back, and Neal turned around to face him.

"Peter, I--I'm so sorry--"

Peter put his hands on Neal's shoulders. "Neal. It's fine. Really. I'm sure that's not the dumbest thing you've ever done. No one got hurt, and if you're right, if we recover the painting . . . "

Neal shook his head. "No, not that, it's . . . I . . . I shouldn't have kissed--I mean, I know you'd never . . . and Elizabeth . . . " He trailed off miserably before glancing up at Peter.

Peter's face was expressionless as he met Neal's gaze. Then he took one slow, deliberate step forward. Neal's breath caught. With one hand, Peter raised Neal's chin up. The other hand slid from Neal's shoulder down to his lower back, pressing his body against Peter. Peter put his mouth to Neal's ear. "El knows," he whispered.

Neal's eyes widened, then shut, as Peter kissed him. He moaned, low and quiet in the back of his throat, as Peter's tongue pushed between his lips and into his mouth. His eyelids fluttered as Peter thrust his tongue deeper into his mouth, making him moan again. Peter's hand slipped lower, cupping his ass and pulling him even closer. His hands flew to Peter's waist, opening and closing convulsively as he pressed against Peter's chest.

When they paused for air, Peter's eyes were dark and penetrating. He smiled as he stroked Neal's cheek. Then he ducked his head and kissed Neal's neck, and Neal cried out and bucked his hips against Peter. Peter's hands grabbed Neal's ass, guiding him backwards to the bed. He gently pushed Neal down, never losing contact with Neal's neck. Neal's hands worked at the buttons on Peter's shirt, and Peter sat back to throw it to the ground. Neal stared at him, drinking him in, and Peter leaned forward again. He cupped one hand gently around Neal's neck, kissing his jaw, and his other hand reached down to cup Neal's erection though his pants. Neal moaned and thrust up into his hand, and Peter smiled.

"Not yet," he whispered. He undid Neal's belt, button, zipper, and then sat back to pull Neal's pants and underwear down over his hips. Neal's erection throbbed, and Neal cried out as Peter took it firmly in his hand. Kneeling over Neal, Peter leaned forward to kiss him roughly on the mouth, jaw, neck as his hand pumped.

Neal cried out again, and Peter stopped. Reaching his hand down lower, he caressed Neal's balls and gently spread his cheeks. He ran one finger between Neal's cheeks, pressing gently against the dark tightness of Neal's entrance.

"Ohhh . . ." Neal's eyes rolled back in his head as he writhed on the bed. He'd been with men before, but it had never made him feel like this . . . he clutched at the sheets as Peter smoothed his hair with his free hand. Peter moved his finger gently, massaging, testing. Neal whimpered high in the back of his throat.

"Shh," Peter whispered in his ear. "I know what I'm doing."

Neal's eyes opened wide, questioning, and Peter smiled. "I wasn't born married," he said in a low voice, before biting the tender skin between Neal's ear and neck. Neal uttered a soft cry.

"Tell me what you want," Peter murmured into his neck.

"I--ahh!" Neal cried out again as the tip of Peter's finger entered him. "I--god, yes--I want--!"

"Tell me," Peter's tone was firm, unyielding.

"I--fuck! Fuck! Me. Fuck me!" Neal's eyes were too wide, blue, transfixed. "God, Peter, please, fuck me!"

Slowly, as if moving too quickly would spook Neal, Peter sat back. He carefully removed Neal's shoes and pants, leaving him completely exposed, sprawled on the bed. With achingly deliberate movements, Peter undid his belt. Neal's eyes were riveted to him, unblinking. Peter removed his pants and underwear in one motion, and climbed onto Neal with a speed that made the younger man gasp. Kissing Neal firmly on the mouth, he whispered, "Condoms."

"Nightstand," Neal gasped. Peter reached out and grabbed a lubricated Trojan. "Huh. Thought you'd be a bit more creative," he remarked as he opened the wrapper.

"Is that a challenge?" Neal raised up on his elbows, watching as Peter pulled on the slippery rubber.

Peter lifted Neal's hips and Neal arched up. "Maybe for next time," Peter said huskily as he pushed into Neal. Neal started at the speed with which Peter penetrated him--not from pain, but from the sudden sensation of Peter on top of him, inside him, confident and comfortable and in control. Peter's weight pressed into him firmly, and Neal knew he couldn't resist even if he wanted to.

He didn't want to.

He cried out at every thrust, head back, eyes shut tight. The bed shuddered underneath them, and he felt the sweat building up between them, heightening the sensation of their bodies pressed together. He felt the pleasure rising up inside of him, white-hot and almost painful in its intensity. With a half-gasp, half-wail, Neal came, convulsing around Peter's cock. Peter moaned into his shoulder, and came inside him.

They collapsed into the bed. After a moment, Peter slowly rolled off of Neal. Peeling off the condom, he dropped it over the side of the bed.

"That's disgusting," Neal said, his eyes following Peter's movements.

Peter rolled back and covered Neal's chest with his own. "Yeah, you look pretty disgusted," he said, before kissing Neal deeply. Neal arched up against him, and Peter ran his hand down the length of Neal's side to cup the curve of his ass.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "I'm pretty sure we have the rest of the day off. Hughes did say he'd deal with us tomorrow."

Neal's muscles moved under Peter's hand as he gently reversed their positions, pushing Peter down on to the bed.

"How can we possibly pass the time?" Neal asked as he ducked under the covers.

Peter's only response was a gasp.

* * *

Later that night, they lay on the bed. Neal's head rested on Peter's chest, and Peter's hand lay tangled in Neal's hair.

"Peter?" Neal murmured.

"Mmm?"

"Fowler told me--Fowler told me that he didn't bug your phone to get me."

"Ah." Peter's hand closed around Neal's hair. After a moment, he replied calmly. "Fowler and I--we go way back, actually," he said slowly. "Not a friendly story."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I don't know how he convinced them to go after me, or what they think they'll find, but they're going to be disappointed." He squeezed Neal tight. "Don't worry about it."

Neal sighed. "If you won't, I won't."

They lay in silence for a while.

"Peter?"

"Yes, Neal?"

"El really knows? And she's okay with . . ?"

He felt, rather than saw, Peter's smile. "She knew before I did."

"She doesn't expect you home tonight?"

"I called her while you were in the bathroom."

"Oh."

Another moment passed. Then, quietly--

"Peter?"

Peter sighed. "Yes, Neal?"

"I . . . trust you."

Peter kissed the top of Neal's head. "Goodnight, Neal."

* * *

Somehow, they made it in to work the next day. It was a near thing; Neal found it hilarious that the shower was just slightly too small for the both of them, so Peter threatened to throw him out on his cold, wet ass, and things just went downhill from there.

Neal was distinctly less groomed than usual by the time they got to the office, but managed to muster up a relatively sober expression when they met with Hughes. Luckily, Neal had been right--the painting was in the crate he'd found, undamaged despite the firefight that had raged around it.

"How fortunate," Neal murmured, all sincerity.

Hughes glared at him. "This time. But if you ever pull a stunt like that again, Caffrey, I'll ship you back to prison so fast you'll leave your pants behind."

"Yes, sir." Neal very carefully did not look at Peter.

"As for you, Agent Burke . . ."

"Sir."

"Same goes for you. Do that again, and it'll be the last thing you do as an agent."

"Yes, sir." Peter stood up to leave. Neal followed.

"And gentlemen?"

They paused at the door. Hughes glanced at them before turning back to his paperwork. "Good work."

* * *

Peter was up to his ears in end-of-the-case paperwork. Neal amused himself till lunchtime, and then suggested a working lunch at a Chinese restaurant a short walk away. After one look at his partner's face, Peter agreed. The food was forgettable, the restaurant was uncrowded, and the single bathroom had thick walls and a sturdy lock inside the door. Peter had barely secured the door before Neal was on him, pulling up Peter's shirt and peppering his chest with kisses. Peter tried to get a grip on him, but Neal was everywhere at once, hands tracing Peter's chest before dipping into his pants, mouth on his lips, jaw, neck, ears. Peter leaned against the wall, closing his eyes in surrender as Neal undid his pants and dropped silently to the floor. Peter's eyes flew open as Neal's warm, wet mouth closed around him. "Fuck--Neal--!"

Neal looked up through his dark lashes as his tongue erased whatever else Peter might have said. Peter tangled his hands in Neal's hair, clenching and unclenching spasmodically. He came with a muffled cry, and Neal waited till he was done before sliding up Peter's body and covering his mouth with kisses. His erection pressed into Peter's hip, and Peter put his mouth against Neal's ear.

"I think--" Peter began, sliding his hand slowly down Neal's stomach. Neal moaned and tried to thrust up into his hand. "--that we'd better get back before we're missed." His hand closed over the bulge in Neal's pants once, and Neal shuddered. Then Peter slid away, and Neal collapsed against the wall. He looked at Peter in disbelief as Peter unlocked the door.

"Hold that thought," Peter smirked, and went to pay the check.

* * *

Neal held that thought the rest of the day, cursing inside whenever he saw Peter's knowing smirk. Every time they passed in the hall or on the stairs, every time Peter called Neal to his office or stopped by Neal's desk, he managed to touch, caress, or squeeze Neal just enough to make Neal want to kill him. After several hours, Neal decided that enough was enough. Catching Peter's eye, he headed towards the men's room.

Peter slipped in the door behind Neal, and locked it. Neal turned on him. "You think you're pretty funny, don't you?"

Peter looked at him appraisingly for a moment. Then he grabbed Neal's shoulders, and spun him around to face the mirror. "Funny's not the word I'd choose, no."

Neal scowled, and opened his mouth to retort as Peter reached around and rubbed his cock through his pants. Neal's comment came out as a gasp, and Peter's other arm wrapped around his chest, holding him tight. "Watch," he whispered in Neal's ear.

Neal's eyes flew to the mirror, took in himself leaning into Peter, arms limp at his sides as Peter supported him. Took in Peter's brown eyes as they drank in the lines of his body. Took in his own hips, writhing in Peter's grasp.

It was too much. His eyes locked on Peter's in the mirror, Neal bucked into Peter's hand. Peter held him until he was still, then kissed him once on the neck, right below his ear. Without another word, he released Neal, and went back to work.

* * *

A month passed. Neal had moved back to his place the day after he and Peter first slept together; although Elizabeth seemed amused by the arrangement between him and her husband, he couldn't quite bring himself to feel comfortable staying with them. He thought he understood their agreement; he was the lover, but she was the wife. Peter was always careful to be home when expected, and rarely spent the night. Only on days when Elizabeth worked especially late did he stay till morning. June brought them coffee, smiled, and said nothing.

Neal had dinner at Peter's every week, and Elizabeth's knowing smiles felt like permission rather than punishment. They never explicitly discussed the relationship that was developing between him and Peter, but the evenings the three of them spent together gave Neal a feeling that he hadn't felt since before he'd been in prison.

Since Kate.

The nightmares were gone.

He wanted this to last forever.

* * *

It was 2pm on a Saturday afternoon when the doorbell rang. June was out of town for a weekend getaway; although Peter didn't usually drop by unannounced on the weekend, Neal was pleasantly surprised to see the agent standing on the doorstep.

"Can I help you, sir?" he began teasingly, but the look on Peter's face stopped him short.

Peter's face was like stone. "Kate's dead, Neal. Suicide."

Neal froze in shock. "How--how--?"

Taking Neal by the elbow, Peter led him to the couch. "She slit her wrists sometime yesterday morning. NYPD didn't get a call until almost midnight. Luckily her record was flagged as an FBI watch case, so we got called in." He took Neal's hands in his. "We went over every inch of that hotel room. It looks pretty straightforward."

"No, no, Kate wouldn't--"

"But we're still investigating. If this is anything but a suicide, we'll find out."

Neal stared at him, blue eyes searching brown. "She can't be dead. It's got to be a trick."

Gently, Peter shook his head. "It's not, Neal. I saw her. She's gone."

With a strangled cry, Neal fell forward, into Peter's arms. Peter held him as he wept.

* * *

Neal didn't move when the doorbell rang that evening. They were curled on the sofa, Neal laying in Peter's arms in a numb half-stupor. The doorbell rang again. Peter got up carefully and went to the door.

Neal glanced at him when he returned. He had a small padded envelope and was looking at it curiously. "FedEx just dropped this off. I signed for it. It's from . . . Kyoto? Do you know someone named Take Amerou?"

Neal sat bolt upright. He grabbed the envelope and tore it open. "Not Take. Kate."

A small thumb drive fell onto the carpet. Without a word, Neal walked out of the room, returning in a moment with an elderly laptop. Silently, he booted up the machine and logged in to June's user account.

As soon as the computer had booted, Neal held up the thumb drive. He paused before plugging it into the port, looking at Peter for reassurance. Peter's face was blank. Neal bit his lip, and plugged in the drive. It contained a single video file. Peter watched over Neal's shoulder as Neal launched the video.

Kate's image filling the screen was like a slap in the face. Neal felt a shock run through his body at the sight of her pale, tear-stained face.

"Neal," she whispered. "I don't have much time." Her voice grew slightly stronger. "I'm so sorry, Neal. I'm sorry for everything." She paused, choking back a sob, and then raised her beautiful eyes, staring as if she could see him there.

"I can't change our past. But maybe I can change your future." She took a deep breath, and leaned forward towards the camera.

Peter reached forward and paused the video. "Are you sure you want to hear this right now?" he asked, turning to face Neal.

Neal looked him in the eyes. "Yes." He could hear the desperation in his voice.

Neal saw Peter's jaw clench as Peter regarded him. There was an expression in his eyes that Neal couldn't read--he hadn't seen it before, and it made him nervous. But not nervous enough to back down.

"I _need_ this, Peter," he said softy.

A flash of anger danced across Peter's features, then vanished. He stared at Neal for what seemed like an eternal moment, then shook his head slightly and met Neal's eyes with a look of resignation. Straightening, he withdrew to his position behind the sofa. Puzzled, but not enough to be deterred, Neal unpaused the video.

"Neal, you have to run. Right now, far away, no matter what." Kate's voice was quiet, but intense, shaking with the effort of speaking. "I don't know what he'll do to you after I--I'm sorry, I know it's dangerous to tell you, I swore I wouldn't, but I can't let him--" Tears were streaming down her face. Neal's blood turned to ice.

"It's Peter, Neal. It was always Peter. He came to me while you were in prison, and told me to leave you. I was scared, he said--he said--" She shuddered. "He said if I didn't, he'd kill me and make sure you stayed in prison for the rest of your life. I couldn't tell you, but I couldn't just let him have you . . . I left you those notes, made it look like I'd been kidnapped, so that you'd keep looking, so that you wouldn't trust anyone . . ." She bit her lip, then continued. "I never thought you'd make that deal. He told me to leave town, but I couldn't. Then he found me again, and made me say those things . . ."

She swayed slightly. "He's dangerous, Neal. I don't know what he'll do to you." Her eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, before she continued. "You need to run."

She reached towards the camera. Neal saw the river of blood running down her wrists, and the room around him tilted dangerously.

"I love you, Neal." The last word, a gasp, came as the screen went black. "Run."

Neal stared at the screen, unable to comprehend what he'd just seen. Peter's hand on his shoulder almost made him scream.

"Oh, Kate. Always one for a dramatic exit." Peter's voice was calm, slightly amused.

Wrenching himself out of Peter's grasp, Neal sprang up from the couch and turned on him. "Is it true?" Rage, despair and nausea warred in him as he clenched his fists. "Tell me it's not true!"

Peter calmly backhanded him across the face. The force of the blow flung Neal to the floor, stunned. "I figured you'd find out eventually." Peter stood over him. "I guess at this point, it doesn't really matter."

Blinking back tears of grief, pain and betrayal, Neal stared up at him. "What?"

"Turns out, it wasn't enough just to catch you." Peter continued in a conversational tone. He knelt on the floor beside Neal and stroked his cheek. Neal flinched away, his breathing shallow, eyes wide in near panic. Peter gave him a reproachful look, and continued speaking. "I thought it would be, that when you were in prison, I could rest. Return to my life. But I couldn't."

"No." Neal's voice cracked. "No."

Peter sighed. "Yeah, it surprised me too. For the first few years, I was fine. But nothing else, no one else, made me feel like I did when I was chasing you . . ." Before Neal could react, Peter was on top of him, pushing him down into the floor. "And then, your sentence was almost up, so I decided to check up on you. Saw that she'd been visiting you the whole time."

Neal struggled frantically, futilely. Peter's weight was crushing him, trapping his arms and legs. He kissed Neal's neck gently. "I knew that when you got out, she'd be there, you'd both disappear, and I might never be able to catch you again. So I got to her first."

Neal froze as the words sank in, his body and mind paralyzed. Peter sat up slightly, still pinning Neal's arms down, and looked at him tenderly. "When you escaped again, I felt like I'd come back to life. When you asked for a meeting . . . when you offered to work for the FBI . . . for me . . . " Peter smiled. "It was my chance. My chance to catch you again. To win." Swooping down again, he kissed Neal's mouth, shoving his tongue deep inside before pulling back and whispering in Neal's ear. "To break you."

An involuntary sob escaped Neal's throat. "N-no--"

"Shh." Grabbing each of Neal's wrists, he wrenched Neal's arms up over his head. Holding both Neal's wrists with one hand, he stroked Neal's cheek with the other.

"You don't realize how very, very beautiful you are. Hell, I didn't even realize it at first." His brown eyes searched Neal's almost pleadingly.

"All I wanted was to know that you were under control. My control. It was enough to be able track you, to know where you were at every minute, to know that you had to do whatever I told you to do. It was enough that you were free because I allowed you to be free."

He ran his finger over Neal's trembling lips, brown eyes boring into blue. "All I wanted was to watch you work, to watch you chafe at the rules. To see your brilliance, your unquenchable fire. The way that everyone acted around you, like moths around a candle. Everyone except me. You could get everyone except me."

He laughed once, humorlessly. "That didn't last very long." His eyes grew serious. "But it wasn't enough for me to risk--everything. I tried to be satisfied."

His eyes darkened. Neal was trapped by his stare, unable to look away. "But Kate couldn't leave well enough alone. The notes, the phone calls . . . I knew that you'd run again, and when you ran, I'd lose you forever. So I found her again. And after that, it was only a matter of time. I knew you would be mine." His hand traced down Neal's body before gripping his crotch, and Neal gasped. "You _are_ mine, Neal."

"No," Neal whimpered, finally beginning to struggle as Peter's weight pressed him firmly into the floor.

"Yes." He stroked Neal through his pants. His voice hardened. "Don't fight me, Neal."

Looking up into Peter's dark eyes, Neal understood. Understood everything Peter was telling him. Understood what Kate had done, and risked. Understood his options.

Made his choice.

Peter smiled. Slowly, he stood. Extended his hand. Swallowing, his stomach heaving, Neal took it. Peter led him over to the bed. "Strip."

Neal took off his clothes, shivering as Peter watched him with a small half-smile. When he was completely naked, he met Peter's eyes. Peter closed the distance between them, taking Neal in his arms and kissing him almost tenderly. Then he jerked Neal around, forcing him down onto the bed. Neal shut his eyes as Peter unbuckled his pants. His hands clenched the bedclothes and he gritted his teeth against a scream as Peter shoved into him.

Peter leaned his weight into Neal, one hand caressing his ass. "I know you, Neal. What you want. What you need. You want this. You need this." His hand reached around Neal, gripping Neal's traitorous half-hard cock. "Let go, Neal. Give in." He began to thrust, slowly at first, then harder and faster until the world narrowed to the rhythmic pounding. Blinded by tears and choking on sobs, Neal tried to focus on only the pain--but Peter was right. He did know Neal, better than anyone ever had. Better than Kate. He knew Neal completely, the way he thought, the way he acted. The way he needed.

With a cry of half pleasure, half shame, Neal convulsed in Peter's hand. A moment later, Peter was coming too, holding Neal tightly as he rode the wave.

* * *

When it was over, Neal lay on his side, curled into a ball. His eyes stared straight ahead, focusing on nothing. Peter glanced over as he buckled his pants.

"You should come over for dinner tomorrow, Neal," he said. "El would like that. I told her about Kate. She's worried about you." He tucked in his shirt. "She's making meatloaf."

Neal didn't move.

Peter reached out and traced the line of Neal's cheek. Neal shuddered.

"I'll be by to pick you up at six." He walked to the door. "I'll let myself out." As he pulled the door closed, he turned.

"Goodnight, Neal," he said.

_Fin._


End file.
